


Involution

by WhitethornWolf



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/WhitethornWolf
Summary: She’s never particularly understood before what it really meant for someone to take your breath away, but drinking him in—light brown skin gleaming, black hair plastered to his neck, rainwater dripping down his bare chest—she’s beginning to grasp it.~First time smut with the apprentice and Muriel.





	Involution

**Author's Note:**

> Apprentice is my genderfluid bisexual magician Daya.  
Follow me lesbianarcana @ tumblr for the good stuff.

It’s meant to be a quick trip into the forest until the storm begins.

In hindsight, Daya thinks, it is probably a bad idea to go foraging when the sky had been looking so grey and dark all morning. Two things had moved her to go out: one, Asra was out of belladonna and Nadia had requested his presence at the Palace. Two, she had been dying for some fresh air after a week of working dawn to dusk at the shop.

“I’ll check on Muriel also,” she had said casually, and Asra had given her his most smug expression—he knew exactly what ‘checking in’ entailed. Or he thought he did, anyway.

By the time Daya finishes gathering what she needs and heads for Muriel’s hut, the storm is well on its way. The air feels electric, thrumming around her with an energy she can almost taste, and the rain drips cold on the back of her neck as she walks down the familiar little path. Lucio’s long gone, but the protection charms remain—just in case.

The rain is coming down harder now, enough to soak her from head to toe. She can feel a protection spell humming under her fingers as she knocks on the door of his hut. It would probably let her in, but there’s something not quite comfortable about being in his house without him there. So she shivers and wraps her arms about herself and resigns to waiting.

“Daya?”

Muriel emerges from the trees with his arms full of firewood. He’s wearing loose pants and his usual scuffed boots; his leather belts and heavy cloak are nowhere to be seen.

Daya’s next breath shudders a little on her lips. She’s never particularly understood before what it really meant for someone to take your breath away, but drinking him in—light brown skin gleaming, black hair plastered to his neck, rainwater dripping down his bare chest—she’s beginning to grasp it.

“You’re drenched,” Muriel says in his matter-of-fact tone, snapping her back to reality. He crosses the clearing and shoulders open the door. Blushing, she follows him. “You should have just gone inside.”

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Daya replies, a little sheepishly. The hut is empty and chilly, the fire nearly out.

Muriel begins to stack the firewood he’s collected. Daya drops her bag and hoists herself onto the table, content to watch him build the fire back up and wring the water out of his hair.

“So,” he says, back still turned. “What are you doing out here?”

“Foraging.”

“In the rain?”

Daya laughs. “I didn’t plan on getting caught in it. Asra asked me to find some belladonna for him, and I thought I would come and visit.”

The fire sparks to life, filling the hut with warm light. Muriel turns and catches sight of her sitting on the table, legs swinging. 

“What are you doing?”

She tilts her head, pretending to look innocent. “Waiting for you to come here and kiss me.”

A little shiver runs through her, chill from her damp clothes, and Muriel shakes his head.

“Come sit by the fire,” he says, offering his hand. “You look cold.”

Daya laughs, and toes her boots off. “Alright, don’t come and kiss me then. See if I care.”

Muriel rolls his eyes but doesn’t move, letting her take his hand and draw them both down onto the furs by the fire.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs. His arm tightens about her shoulders (as if he could banish the cold by hugging her close enough—he’s so warm he just might).

“You’ll warm me up soon enough.”

A soft touch on her cheek prompts her to look up. Muriel’s thumb smoothes from her cheekbone down to her lower lip. She’s already tilting her head up to kiss him, heart fluttering in her chest.

It's only been a few months since they'd first kissed under the southern lights, and with everything that’s happened since, they’ve hardly had time to just  _ be _ —to figure out what being together really means. It’s new territory for both of them, and for different reasons. Even so, there’s something just so comforting about his touch. It could be the scent of the myrrh that lingers around his clothes. She’s always liked the earthy scent. 

Or it could just be him.

Daya closes her eyes and breathes him in, arms sliding around his neck, and sighs happily when Muriel gathers her closer. He’s come so far in the last few months, and it shows in every aspect of him. Especially his kisses—and she’s certainly not complaining.

“Where’s Inanna?” she asks, when they finally part to breathe.

“Hunting.” Muriel’s thumb wanders over her chin, and he leans in to kiss her again, but Daya won’t be dissuaded.

“So...we’re alone?”

Muriel nods, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, and a wicked idea occurs to her. She kisses him again, a little harder this time, a little more insistent. Her hand slips into his hair and combs through the black strands. His hair is still damp from the rain, but the fire is rapidly drying them. She licks his upper lip, tentatively, and Muriel hums softly. Then he’s parting his lips with a deep sigh and letting her tongue slip into his mouth. 

They draw closer, clammy skin pressing together, and in one fluid movement Daya turns and swings a leg over his hip.

She’s already slender and light, she already knows that—compared to Muriel she weighs next to nothing. Yet he starts at the sudden weight of her in his lap, and breaks the kiss. His cheeks are bright red. Warm, calloused fingers drop to her shoulders and he murmurs something against her lips.

Perhaps she’s gone too far this time, Daya wonders, and pulls back with a little stab of anxiety. “Are you okay?”

Muriel smiles, and gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Yeah. You’re… almost as tall as me now.”

“Is that a crack about my height?” Daya laughs, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He laughs. They’re almost at eye level now—no doubt it’s easier to kiss her like this, without craning his neck. “You’re okay with me like this, right?”

“Yeah,” Muriel says, a little breathlessly, but there’s a soft smile on his lips as Daya peppers his face with light kisses. “It’s—”

He stops the moment her lips touch his neck, and makes a needy, plaintive whine in the back of his throat—the sound shoots straight down her spine lodging deep in her belly, and Daya has to swallow a mixture of laughter and a sound of her own. Muriel buries his face in her shoulder, kissing her skin, and shivers. When he looks up again his face is bright red.

“Oh, are you sensitive there?” Daya murmurs, and presses a soft kiss to his throat.

“Don’t,” he grumbles, but there’s no trace of annoyance in his voice. She leans forward and kisses his neck again, nipping the rough, warm skin, and Muriel relaxes against her. Or perhaps relax isn’t the right word—there’s a certain tension in the way his hands curl around her back. When she bites his earlobe he groans low in his throat (sending another jolt of pleasure down her spine) and pulls back with a sharp inhale.

“Are you okay?” Daya asks, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Did you not like it?”

Muriel’s blush brightens, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks anxious and miserable and mortified, and it makes her own anxiety begin to rise in her chest.

“It’s okay if you didn’t like it,” she continues, when he doesn’t say anything. “You can tell me, I promise. You can tell me anything.”

“No, it’s…” He seems even more tongue-tied, if possible. “I—it’s—”

And then she feels it between her legs.

It wouldn’t have been noticeable on any other day. Muriel wore a pelt tied around his waist year round, even in summer, but not when it’s raining. All they have between them are a few layers of fabric, and there is no way for him to conceal anything, let alone—that. 

Daya wriggles a little, just to confirm her suspicions, and is rewarded with a gasp and a frantic grip on her waist. She bites her lip to stifle the laughter she knows will only embarrass him further.

“You’re so cute,” she says. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

Muriel is blushing so hard his face is almost glowing. “Th-that’s easy for you to say!”

Daya does laugh then, unable to help herself, and kisses his nose and cheeks. She pulls back, cradling his face. “I want you too, Muriel. It’s just not as obvious with me.”

She’s not lying. There’s a growing ache between her legs that’s only intensified by the drag of friction from her underwear and trousers. Knowing that Muriel wants her only makes the heat in her belly grow fiercer.

“We haven't talked about… doing anything like that,” Muriel says hesitantly. His hands descend to her waist, holding her securely as he sits up a little. “I-I haven’t—I mean I never..."

Daya is not surprised, given what she knows of his past, but she doesn’t comment on that. Instead she rises on her haunches, so she’s not sitting on him, and asks, “Do you want to?”

Muriel's thumbs dig into her waist, idly massaging the skin beneath her shirt. He's wearing that faraway look he gets when he's trying to find the words. 

So she waits, and eventually he takes a deep breath and nods.

“I’d like to with you,” he says slowly. “I just… don’t think I’ll be good at it.”

Daya laughs softly. Muriel's eyebrows pinch together, but she soothes the frown with a gentle kiss.

“I don’t care if you’re not good at it,” she assures him, petting his hair. “It’s just something that takes practice. Think of it like dancing.”

Muriel laughs. “I’m not a good dancer, either.”

“It’s just an analogy. Sex isn’t something I just let you… lie down and do to me. It’s something we both do together.” Daya grins at him. “Preferably  _ you’re _ the one lying down.”

“Right,” Muriel says, and swallows. “Have you... ? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“Once or twice. Nothing ever serious.” It’s Daya’s turn to flush, hands twisting nervously on her thighs. “The, um… the last time was with Julian, at my shop.”

Muriel’s eyes widen at that. “Julian?”

“Mm-hm.” Was the hut getting hotter, or were her cheeks just burning? Probably both. “It was before I met you. I don’t… I mean—it wasn’t like this. And it hasn’t happened since. Buuuut I thought you probably should know.”

Muriel frowns again.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just have terrible taste.”

Daya rolls her eyes, but secretly she’s relieved it doesn’t seem to affect him overly. Julian is not his favourite person. 

“I don’t know about that. I chose you, didn’t I?”

“Exactly,” Muriel says, but he laughs as she swats him. A few moments in silence pass, filled only by the rain falling steadily outside. Then his arms tighten around her and he settles back, pulling her gently down with him.

Their next kiss is different, hungry, all lips and tongue. Muriel pulls her flush against him, hands wandering to her hips, and groans when she grinds herself against him. Each time they part for breath, she sees a little more of the expression on his face. The combination of affection and open want in his gaze sends an excited little quiver through her. When they part again, she begins to tug at her sash.

Her shirt has to be peeled off, it’s so wet. Muriel tugs the fabric down over her shoulders, his gaze lingering over the skin he helps uncover. There's curiosity and nervous longing in his expression, but still he reaches for her when she tosses the garment to the floor. His broad palm smoothes over her stomach to her chest, gentle fingers tracing around one nipple.

His touch is  _ almost  _ sexual, but not quite—and while Daya is happy to accept chaste kisses and soothing touches any other day, the tight ache between her legs demands attention. She raises herself upright, pushing him onto his back, and he goes willingly.

And  _ oh _ —doesn't he look beautiful, she thinks. His black hair is spread out on the furs, chest bare and still a little damp, his cheeks flushed and his gaze ravenous. He devours the sight of her straddling him—legs spread, lean muscles shifting, dark skin reflecting the warmth of the fire light and hands splayed for purchase. She can imagine how she looks; how her eyes appear like fire, her hair deepest indigo, and how her lips part for quiet breaths in time with his heartbeat. 

Truthfully, she knows what she wants to do next—to taste him, to see his lovely eyes close at the heat of her mouth, to make him shake with pleasure until he can barely stand it. This is new to him, though and in some ways to her. She would rather fuck the Devil himself than make Muriel feel uncomfortable for even a second.

"You okay so far? You want to keep going?”

“Yeah,” Muriel says, a little breathessly. His hands are clutching at her hips, fisting in the fabric of her pants as if his life depends on holding onto her. As she leans down to kiss him again, his fingers slacken. One hand reaches up tentatively, slipping under her body, then he’s cupping her breast.

“Is that okay?”

All Daya can manage is a nod and a furious blush. The maddening gentleness of his touch doesn't help with her growing desperation, but she’s determined to go as slow as he needs.

She presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to his torso, following the line of hair to his navel, and his hands can’t seem to decide where to touch her. He thumbs her nipples gently, then reaches up to caress one shoulder, then brushes her curls back to watch as she lavishes kisses on his scarred skin. He shivers each time she makes contact with his skin, as if he’s surprised to find she’s still there.

Daya stops when she reaches his hipbones, pressing her thumbs firmly into the muscle.

“I… want to use my mouth on you," she says a little nervously.

“Wh-what?”

Her hands trail over his belt buckle as she watches his face, waiting for permission.

“Y-you don’t…” Muriel swallows; his face turns pink again. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Can I?”

He nods slowly, eyes wide.

Daya makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the laces and tugging them down to his knees. Once he’s bare she takes a moment to drink him in. 

She’s seen Muriel shirtless many times before, some she doesn’t even remember. She’s snuck glances at him while he’s been working around the hut, or when he’s visited the shop, or those rare times in the south when he’s been without his cloak. Seeing him naked for the first time is different. It’s beautiful—he is beautiful, and for a moment Daya can only stare admiringly at him, Her eyes wander over the defined muscle on his hips, the soft, dark hair on his stomach, and between his legs—

Muriel’s eyes dart away as he follows her gaze. He must be feeling vulnerable, Daya thinks, being naked in front of another person for the first time (if not ever, then at least a very long time). 

He doesn’t need to worry, though. No scar, no matter how thick or jagged, will repulse her. That’s just part of loving another person—loving them as they are.

“Beautiful,” Daya murmurs, and Muriel’s gaze flicks back to her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine,” he says, and licks his lips.

She reaches for the hand clenched in the furs, thumb rubbing his knuckles. “Are you sure? You can tell me if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”

Muriel nods. There’s a pause when he takes a breath, brows pinching as he struggles to find the words.

“It’s just… new. I’m not used to...” he gestures vaguely to himself, cheeks pink. "Being touched like this."

A thought occurs to her all of a sudden, and she pauses. 

"Muriel… you have touched yourself before, haven't you?"

He sputters, face bright pink.  _ “Daya!” _

“ _ What? _ It's a genuine question!”

“Well, y-yes, but… this is different!”

A giggle falls from Daya’s lips. She claps a hand over her mouth, glancing at him apologetically.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s a fondness in his voice, and his hand relaxes, slipping into hers.

“Don't feel shy, I do it as well.” Her voice drops low, gaze flicking to his mouth again. “If you’re good, I’ll show you how.”

His lips part a little bit, breath trembling. “If I’m…?”

“If you’re good,” Daya says, grinning. “Now, can I use my mouth on you?”

"Fine." He seems to realise his tone a moment later; he takes another breath and nods. "Yes. Okay."

She pushes him back down and he goes without resistance, only to raise himself back up to watch as she shimmies further down his body, pressing kisses to his bare thighs. He’s so close she can feel his breathing quicken in anticipation, watching fervently as her lips inch closer to his cock.

“You should wear no pants around me more often,” she murmurs, and kisses a scar running jagged across his knee. “These thighs are definitely my favourite part of you so far.”

“S-stop teasing,” he grumbles.

“You think  _ this _ is teasing?” Her lips brush the base of his cock lightly. “You have no  _ idea  _ how much I could tease you. I could kiss you like this… so light you won't be able to focus on anything else.”

A quick glance up, and she sees Muriel press the back of his hand to his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut.

"I  _ could _ fuck you with my fingers," Daya says nonchalantly. She punctuates with a firm pressure to his perineum, and Muriel lets out a sound between a moan and a whimper. “There’s a spot inside you that will leave you weak with pleasure.”

She presses a kiss to the head of his cock, tongue darting across the reddened flesh, and her fingers tease up his shaft. “Maybe another time, though. But you’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he says hoarsely.

She closes her mouth around him. “Good.”

Muriel quivers, and the coarse, dark hairs on his thighs stand on end. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, breath catching, and Daya takes a moment to look up and admire him—the sweat gleaming on his forehead, black hair plastered to his neck, the blush reaching all the way to his shoulders. She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock and watches the muscles of his abdomen clench, pulls back, then runs her tongue up his shaft in a slow swipe. The fingers of her other hand wrap around the base, stroking idly.

Muriel hisses, thrusting towards her touch; he immediately looks mortified, but his gaze never leaves her. She can feel the intensity of his stare even with her head lowered, her lips around him. It doesn’t take long for the shuddering of his legs to turn into gasping breaths, and for those breaths to turn into soft moans, and each one sends a bolt of arousal straight through her. Daya shifts the angle of her body so she can take him further, her cheeks hollowing, nose pressed to his groin--

“Wait! Wait—Daya—”

Daya releases him with an obscene sound and raises her head, leaning on his thighs for puchase. Muriel rises to meet her, sweaty, red-faced, trembling—an absolute beautiful mess.

Gentle but insistent hands grasp her shoulders and pull her up into his arms.

"You can't keep doing that," he mutters into her neck. “It’s too—too  _ good— _ ”

“That’s kind of the point,” Daya laughs, cheek pressed into his shoulder. Muriel’s hands scramble on her thighs before dipping below her waistband.

“Can I—?”

“Yes,” Daya breathes; she loosens the ties on her pants to give him better access, but his fingers are already slipping inside her damp underwear. He strokes her tentatively, feather-light, and she bites down on her knuckle.

“You’re so…” he pauses. “Wet?” 

She laughs, embarrassed, and that turns into a moan when his thumb catches her clit. He’s a fast learner—he does it again, and she grinds frantically against his hand.

"Daya?"

"Firmer," she gasps, clasping his arm for dear life. " _ Harder _ , more pressure."

“Harder? I don’t want to—”

“I promise it won’t hurt me.” She’s throbbing, aching, and she can’t seem to stop grinding against his fingers. “I promise, I promise. I’ll show you what to do—fuck, just keep going, please—”

Muriel does not keep going. He extricates himself, ignoring her displeased grumble, and turns them so she’s the one leaning back on the bed. There’s a fleeting moment in which Daya knows self-consciousness, and her hands flutter nervously before fisting in the soft fur beneath her head. She lets Muriel take off her trousers and underwear, and tries to ignore the pounding of her heart.

He may have been a little shy when it came to being naked in front of her, but there’s no trace of embarrassment or hesitancy in the way his gaze wanders over her. He drinks her in, lingering on her bare legs and the line of soft, dark hair from her navel to the apex of her thighs. Perhaps her efforts to make him comfortable worked. Or perhaps Muriel is simply a quick learner.

He kisses her softly at first, lips warm against hers, then makes his way down to her jaw and collarbone.

“Soft,” he mumbles against her breast. “I told you.”

Daya laughs shakily, remembering the conversation they’d had in Tarske Forest—the first moment she realised just how hard she’d fallen for him. Even after how much he’s grown, Muriel still has this sweet shyness about him that she loves  _ fiercely _ . She can see it in the way he pauses between each kiss on her skin, as if waiting for her to pull away. As if she would ever recoil from his touch—as if she hadn’t been craving it for longer than she can remember!

Gentle hands smooth up her inner thighs. Daya whines low in her throat, already pushing herself up on her elbows to tell him to _ stop teasing. _ Then a warm tongue draws a slow pattern across her lips, and she settles back with a surprised huff. The next stroke has her thighs tightening.

“Like that,” she breathes, one hand tangled in his hair (the other is desperately parting her lips, guiding him to her clit). “Yes, like that—use your tongue, your mouth—”

Muriel obeys, hands sliding to the backs of her thighs, and lifts her legs out of the way. He’s hesitant, and a little sloppy, but it feels so damn good she doesn’t care.

"Like this?"

The question drags her out of the haze of pleasure. "Y-Yeah—try with your lips—"

His mouth closes around her clit, sucking gently on the swollen bud, and Daya quivers. “Fuck!”

He stops, glancing up at her wide-eyed. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she gasps. “Keep doing that—”

It would be embarrassing, Daya thinks, if she had to tell him exactly what to do. Instead she guides him with shaking hands, showing her where she likes to be touched. Muriel is clever and a quick learner (something she feels with pride fierce in her chest—she loves him so much), and before long she’s squirming and shaking, gasping ‘close, close’ while her thighs clamp down around him.

“Good,” Muriel mumbles into her skin. Under her instructions he’s buried his fingers in her, curling and rubbing against the sensitive spot inside her, and Daya gasps as her orgasm crashes over her, arching her spine and stealing her breath. Muriel starts in surprise at the clench of her muscles around his fingers, then looks up at her limp thighs.

“Good?” he asks, hovering uncertainly.

“Very good,” Daya says, and he smiles.

* * *

“I like these.”

Daya runs a hand through Muriel’s hair as he rests his hot cheek on her breast. They’re tangled together, naked and cooling down, and he’s tracing the little stretch marks on her thighs. They’re barely visible now—a relic of her adolescent growth spurt—but she’s always felt a little self-conscious of them.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looks up at her from under his lashes.

“Was that… good?” he asks. When Daya looks at him quizzically he gestures to their limbs entangled on the furs. “Making you finish.”

“Finish?”

He flushes. “I don’t know what else you call it.”

“It could be a worse name, I guess.” Daya sighs contentedly, tracing a fingernail down his chest. “Though it does imply some sort of… ending, when the reality is quite different.” Her fingers tease down his stomach and slip between their bodies.

“Oh—” his eyes widen, biting his lip at the first, tentative touch of her fingers on him. “You—you’re not—”

“I’m not done with you,” Daya murmurs. She rises and rolls him onto his back, pinning his wrists by his head. “Are you done?”

Muriel goes pliant underneath her, his eyes affectionate. “Not if you aren’t.”

“Well, I haven’t fucked you yet.” She leans closer, pressing her thighs together. His mouth opens in a little huff of surprise, then a soft, needy whimper. “Do you want me to?”

“Y-yeah,” he gasps. His wrists strain against her grip, but to pull himself free would require using his strength on her. She knows he would never do that—despite his squirming, the rapidly hardening cock against her thigh indicates otherwise. Sweat dampens the hair at his temples as she grinds against him, torturously slow. She leans closer, an arch grin on her face, and he moans her name into their kiss—followed by a hasty string of pleas. Daya raises up, prompting another groan of frustration, and reaches between his legs, raising up until he’s just pressing inside of her. 

“You’re cute when you beg,” she says, and leans down to whisper in his ear. “I might make you say please some more next time.”

She’s done this only once before, a lifetime ago at the shop. Back then she’d been indulging herself with a reckless fantasy, with a man who had even less impulse control than she did. 

She doesn’t regret it, but it hadn’t been like this.

Muriel groans in mingled pleasure and relief as she sinks down onto him, hands pressed against his abdomen. His hands slide to her thighs, and his hips press up, until there’s no more space between them.

Looking down at his face—cheeks flushed, eyes closed, a soft smile on his lips—makes her heart flutter. How can she not love him?

“You okay?” Daya asks, breathlessly, when she’s pressed fully against him.

Muriel opens his eyes. His hand moves to her cheek, thumb rubbing her cheekbone softly. “Yeah.”

Her mind is blissfully empty, and all she does now is let the sensations wash over her in a wave. Their movements are messy, erratic, and desperate—Muriel’s soft moans of pleasure fill her ears as he clutches her hips like a lifeline, but after a few moments he cedes control to her and lets her set the rhythm and pace. Whether this is from inexperience or preference, she neither knows or cares. 

She rides him slow and hard, thighs burning and and hands braced on his knees as he lifts, planting his heels firmly, and the drag of his skin against hers is enough to send little shudders of pleasure through her. Daya slips a hand between their bodies, and her muscles begin to tighten.

Muriel is red-faced, sweaty and panting beneath her, but he still notices what she’s doing.

“Here,” he gasps, and covers her hand with his, and it doesn’t take too long before her legs begin to shake. Caught between pleasure and pain, she comes again, head tilted back as she pants and trembles and squeezes around him. Through the haze of pleasure she feels Muriel’s hips stutter against hers, and hears him moan low and hoarse. Then he begins to slow.

For a long moment there’s only the sounds of rain. Daya lets her head hang as her breathing quietens. Only Muriel’s warmth beneath her keeps her anchored; if not for him she would feel like she’s floating.

“You okay?” she asks, for what seems like the millionth time.

Muriel comes into focus beneath her, flushed and smiling. 

“You finished twice,” he says.

“Mmhmm. With your help.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Jealous?” she teases, and Muriel snorts. He shifts her gingerly, his cock slipping out of her, and grimaces at the mess that follows.

“Don’t worry about it,” Daya says, and drapes herself over his chest. “We can clean up in a second. What did you think?”

“It wasn’t… what I expected.”

Daya nuzzles the crook of his neck. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Muriel says, then frowns thoughtfully. “More intense. But also… soft.”

“I’m not soft,” she grumbles. “Stop saying that.”

They lie in contented silence for a while, until the stickiness and sweat becomes too uncomfortable. Muriel fetches water and a cloth and they clean in silence. She can feel his reluctance keenly, intertwined with her own—he does not want her to go. Even so, he accepts her goodbye kiss, lips lingering a little longer than usual, and she’s halfway through the door when he says, “Wait.”

Daya glances over her shoulder, eyebrows raising.

“You should leave some of your things here,” Muriel says. “I can make some room. So you don’t have to go so often. I know it’s a long walk back to town.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she murmurs, though she’s oddly touched by the offer. “It’s not that far to walk. And I know you don’t have much space.”

“I have enough space for you. And…” his voice drops a little. “It’s better when you’re here. Not just because of…”

“What we just did?” Unable to help herself, she grins.

Muriel turns pink, but nods.

“I’m better with you here.”


End file.
